


Mars and Venus

by WrittenTales



Series: Dreamwidth BBC Musketeer Fills [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 5+1, Dreamwidth, Kisses, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 20:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9842189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrittenTales/pseuds/WrittenTales
Summary: Five times Porthos wanted Aramis to kiss him on the lips and one time he did.





	1. Hand in Greeting

**Author's Note:**

> From an old prompt on round 1 Dreamwidth that I just had to fill if it hasn't been filled already

If Porthos could remember clearly, he was perhaps around twenty-one years of age when he first met Aramis René d'Herblay. The most heroic, sly-talking, beauty of a man that ever could be. Or so he was told.

He heard of the stories among the other recruits in the frontlines, gossiping like old women about his finesse and natural innate talent. A former priest in training turned dead-eye sharpshooter. At first he thought it all a tale of fiction, that such a man could not really exist. A man they described as perfect in every avenue, who scored a commission the first week on the field and had women: wealthy or underprivileged, married, young, or widowed, ugly or pretty lined up like unfortunate bastards to church confessions and open mealtimes just to have a taste of him.

Porthos, who grew up in the cold, harsh streets of forgotten Paris, where natural talent meant unwanted attention, he had no such intention nor drive to match this legend or become him like some aspirants did. Rather, he wished he would never lay eyes upon this Aramis René d'Herblay. That he would stay a mystery, because he certainly was in no mood for silly competition.

Needless to say, when Treville, who had specially selected him to come back to France on horseback to join his regiment, explained to him that he were to join d'Herblay’s detail after one of his members had retired and he had no others available for replacement…he was shocked to say the least.

So this Aramis **did** exist, and he was going to work, eat, and live around him like his former comrades in the bunkers. This may have been an opportunity of a lifetime for some men, but what if this René, would think Porthos inferior? Ask Treville personally to turn him away and send him back to the frontlines? What if they despised one another and he was forced to comply with a vicious tyrant under Treville’s beak?

“Why I, Monsieur Treville?” Porthos tried to refrain from his street slang during his first impression in front of his new commanding officer. “Surely, some other sap could take my place?”

Treville, a middle-young valiant man himself, turned to Porthos with compassion. “You have exemplary potential Porthos, you’ll fit in just pleasantly. Don’t let the stories of the Musketeers intimidate you.”

“I am not intimidated Monsieur, just wonderin’ why I’m being placed beside an extraordinaire.” Porthos says, knowing that the colorful vulgarity that he had in place of “extraordinaire” would not be suitable for this tête-à-tête.

“Call me Captain, son. It’s more respectable since now you are under my tutelage. But Aramis is no different from any of my other men, and he will teach you the basics. But from your reputation I’ve heard, I believe you two will get along just fine.” Captain Treville reassures and Porthos is baffled to say the least. Yet when they reach the garrison, he still feels uneasy about this arrangement.

When he jumps off his horse and starts to follow Treville to the tables where already a few men sit down playing cards instead of training. They perk up at the sight of their captain, all beginning to scurry to conceal their evidence of play, all expect for one person.

He had curly ringlets, a dusty blue hat, olive skin that seemed easy to bruise, plump, thin rosy lips, and absent of strong facial hair. Immediately, Porthos recognizes this man as a Spaniard. A Spaniard who held a lot of guts.

“I see you lot are again gambling when you should be drilling. You’re teaching Aramis poor habits in my absence and as grown men you should be ashamed.” So this was Aramis, a foolish fledgling. This almost has Porthos rolling on the ground in laughter at how he overestimated this lark. “Be relieved I have no punishments to give at the moment, because I have to introduce Porthos to his new team. Aramis, stand to attention.”

Aramis René d'Herblay stands, taller than Porthos expected and his uniform is a bit too clean for Porthos’ taste, even his shoulder guard is minus a few scraps. Aramis René d'Herblay was nothing but a child.

“This is René d'Herblay son, he’s above your rank but he’ll be a good teacher. He’s one of my best, though as you can see, I think you’ll have no problem getting along.” Aramis’ brown eyes twinkle with welcome, his thin lips raising to a smile.

“You’re the extraordinaire?” Porthos asks, trying to keep his sarcasm to a down-low.

“At your service.” Aramis’ voice is not delicate and lady-like as he had assumed, his voice had a slight tone of gruffness, yet it was elegant. Strangely, his voice is rather pleasant to Porthos’ ears.

Aramis removes his hat in a flamboyant wave of his arm, putting it against his chest while he grabbed Porthos’ hand like some whimsical maiden and gives Porthos’ rough, stained hand a kiss. He was testing him, Porthos was sure of it.

This makes the table behind him roar with laughter, and Porthos removes his hand as quick as Aramis looks back up at him. Aramis René d'Herblay was trying to make a fool of him.

Treville sighs, before turning away with his horse as Porthos stands glaring at the slightly smaller man. Porthos didn’t have muscles big enough to intimidate the musketeer, his frame still very thin from his time of petite rations in the lines and his previous years in the Court. But this didn’t stop him from lunging at him, trying to get a rouse at him like it would most men when they go in an offensive stance. But it doesn’t even make the boy flinch.

“If you can keep up, I believe we can be very good friends.” Aramis pats his shoulder, placing his hat back on his head. “I can show you around.” Aramis turns from him, walking further into the garrison as if he was expecting Porthos to follow.

Later that night, when Porthos lies awake in his new room, which was full of cobwebs, a horrible musty odor, discoloring wood, foggy windows, a hard mattress and little make-shift furniture, it’s still the best thing he’s ever had. He can’t believe how far he’s come, but he intends on making the most of it.

Yet when Porthos thinks back towards d'Herblay, he feels his hand tingle on the spot where his lips had been a few hours back. His head begins to fill with thoughts a man normally would think of with a proper woman, like kissing her neck, undoing her corset, fucking till she reached oblivion and be stricken only to utter her lover’s name and nothing else. Though these thoughts are all about Aramis, kissing his olive neck till it turned purple, ruffling up that ridiculous doublet, and bending him over this mattress instead of the ground, and fucking him till he could only fathom Porthos’ cock and how good it felt inside of him. It was blasphemous and if he believed in those heretic Catholics, he may be going to hell for this.

But he doesn’t care in the slightest, his thoughts consumed with how that tingling on his hand may feel upon his lips in the privacy of his lodge.


	2. Bullet Wound

Porthos was told countless of times in his life that he was a reckless, stubborn idiot.

It was just the first time that someone had ever said it to him so intricately:

“Porthos, you impetuous, sanctimonious, undiplomatic son of a termagant!”

Porthos flinched when Aramis went in deeper with his tweezers, causing Porthos to bite down on his cheek to prevent the scream that so desperately wanted to be released. No! he would refuse to show Aramis, who he had once seen take a blade to the side with so much as blink, that he was in excruciating pain and felt like wailing like a newborn child on its first day into the world.

Of course, Porthos was still dazed, as the reason he was currently in his predicament was because he ran in front of Aramis, knowing that the sharpshooter wouldn’t have enough time to register the bandit that was aiming his pistol at his back. Porthos without thinking decided to jump in the way, the musket ball embedding itself in the deep layers of skin that was his abdomen.

At this specific moment in time, by the way he was being mistreated and being slayed by the wide range of Aramis’ “dark” vocabulary, he surely wasn’t feeling the gratitude he was expecting. “What did you say?”

Aramis’ brown eyes shot up at him in a rage, the usually cool aura that Aramis carried was absolutely nowhere to be found. “I said, you disgust me.”

“I saved your life!” Porthos grunted, remembering to take his breaths. The most glorious sound of his evening was when the sound of the musket ball hit the old dinner plate Aramis borrowed from the cook. Aramis took a breath of solace, having sat there searching under Porthos’ skin for almost ten minutes before he found the darn bullet. Porthos uttered a quiet thank you to the spirits before he turned to Aramis, his brow sweaty as he could feel the pillow beneath his head felt completely damp.

As Aramis moved around the room, to dissipate his nerves as he was pulling thread through his needle, Porthos decided to ask him something. “Where did you learn how to do all this?”

“The monks taught me. I was assigned to the infirmary a few years before I bequeathed my robes.” Aramis’ hand was uncharacteristically shaking, as his expert hands were usually fast with these minimal tasks.

After a minute of watching Aramis struggle, Porthos relaxes as the pain subsides to a manageable ache. “You know, I expected at least a thank you.” Aramis and he hadn’t known each other for very long, and perhaps Aramis was still getting used to his snide commentary, because the Spaniard shakes his head in what Porthos assumes is guilt.

“I will not say thank you.” Aramis finally gets the thread through, tying a knot before he begins his work. Porthos is frustrated, both at the pain of the needle point and Aramis’ stubbornness.

“For such a courageous romantic hero and man of the cloth, you sure are cruel.” Porthos mutters and Aramis acts like he doesn’t hear Porthos as he continues his sewing.

“Those tales that you heard in that hovel are all fantasies that recruits like to spread in the bathhouses. My comrades in the lines ostracized me because of envy, here, they respect me. If you like how it is right now, know it is not wise to cross swords with me.” Aramis states, his hand a lot more fluid and cautious as he loops the needle around.

“Are you threatenin’ me?” Porthos asks. This should enrage Porthos, surely because if any other man had said the same thing, they’d immediately be on his wrong side. But Aramis’ words gives Porthos’ chills, in a pleasing way.

“Take it as you will. But I refuse to express my dearest gratitude because I will not encourage you to do such a thing again.” Porthos takes this mildly as Aramis’ way to show that he cared. But when Aramis cuts the thread, finishing with his stitching, he looks at his work for a brief moment before looking to Porthos. “I like you Porthos, more than I liked any of my other comrades if I shall admit. I want you to stay around a little while longer.” Aramis comes closer to Porthos, till they're almost sharing the same breath.

Porthos’ breath quickens when Aramis nose touches the side of cheek, their eyes locked on each other. Aramis smiles, “At first, I considered your sharp looks to be rather callous. But you’re actually very striking.” He murmurs, his voice seducing Porthos into his trap. So much so, that Porthos almost grabs Aramis to pull him closer so they could finally touch lips, but he moves before Porthos could reach for his hair.

Aramis’ sneaky moves has him kissing his stitching, bringing a small ounce of pain but oh, so much pleasure. He feels himself growing hard beneath his smalls. Aramis chuckles before moving away.

That cocky bastard.


	3. Birthday Kiss

Porthos has been in the garrison for a little over a year now. Fully integrated in the Musketeers routine, he feels like he’s been really accepted among the others. They all know him by name, tag him along on missions, save him a spot at the table, they even drag him to the taverns after a long week on guard duty sometimes. So far, Porthos feels like he’s actually constructed a life here.

Once in a while, if he passes near the court, he feels his past calling to him, pleading for him to come back. Hell, he was king. The king of rags and stolen riches. But at least it was something, not as honorable as it was being a musketeer, but it was something special to have all those people look up to you, listened to your every word as if they were spoken decrees.

It was a difficult journey, but he’ll have to admit, Aramis made the transition much easier than he had initially hoped for. They’ve been close, like Flea and Charon were always on his shoulder; others rarely seen them apart. Before, Porthos could have considered himself shy and unsure, but Aramis brought out a side of him he’s never seen before himself. Unfortunately, At times, their antics did become a little over overbearing and worrisome. They were frequently visiting Treville’s office for a thrashing, but he’s also become somewhat of a father to him. He’d give his lectures and speeches but Porthos knows that if he had a problem, he could come to Treville and he’d accept him with open arms.

In conclusion, Porthos couldn’t imagine a place better than the garrison. Perhaps it was complete thanks to Aramis, as he couldn’t imagine this place being home without him.

Right now, both men were in Porthos’ room, which was filled with more things now than the scraps left behind by the previous occupant. Aramis randomly dragged him place to place for furniture, sometimes dropping off a few small gifts to personalize his space. It did feel cozier, as Porthos and he sat by the fire, enjoying a nice bottle of wine that Aramis brought from his special collection.

“I can’t believe you waste money on such petty things.” Porthos speaks out into the silence, his voice carrying a bit of a drunken slur. “I’d just take it, if I were you.” He admits, reaching for the bottle to pour more of that expensive red.

Aramis was a modest drinker, drinking himself to oblivion was not particularly his taste of entertainment. So he was more reasonable than Porthos at the moment. Before, he was muddled in deep thought, until he puts his hand out to stop Porthos' hand from gripping the neck of the bottle, and Porthos looks up at him in confusion. “In all seriousness, when is your birthday?”

Porthos starts to cackle, reaching for the bottle again anyway, pouring himself more wine. He almost misses the cup. “Haha, _“in all seriousness, when’s yer birthday?”_ you kill me.” Porthos mimics, exaggerating his words to a little bit of an extreme. Aramis isn’t pleased with being mocked, but he tries again anyway.

“You’ve been here for almost a year and a half. Everyone here celebrated their birth one way or another…except for you.” Aramis swishes the thin liquid around in his glass. “If it humiliates you to say it to the others, you can just tell it to me.”

“Humiliate me? Why would that humiliate me?” Porthos burps and hiccups when he takes another deep mouthful.

“Some people just don’t like to celebrate. There’s nothing peculiar about that.” Aramis shrugs, watching Porthos intently.

“Well, I don’t remember celebratin’ yours. Now that sounds very peculiar.” Porthos says, nodding excessively as he speaks, his eyes closing with drunken bliss. Aramis gives him a long stare, taking the bottle in the center of the table and resting it on the floor beside him. At this rate, Porthos might drink himself to sleep.

“Got to explore the streets of Lyon, chased some criminals, killed some people, got to spend it with my finest friend, how else is there to celebrate?” Aramis answers, a little sore that Porthos didn’t remember that, but then again, he was not exactly functional at the moment. “What’s your deal?”

“My deal? Well…you know I never had a birthday. Never did know when I was born. I don’t even know how old I am.” Porthos starts to cackle, as if not knowing a vital point to who he was, was hysterical. Immediately Aramis’ spirits drop down to his feet.

“Is that the truth?” Aramis asks and Porthos nods his head, his eyes twinkling as he rests his head on his arm, staring at Aramis with those big brown, puppy eyes. “If there’s one good thing that a man has to look forward to in life, that’s his birthday.”

“Why? A day closer to the grave if you ask me.” Porthos sputters.

“Perhaps, but it’s the day when you matter most.”

“Well, you’ll always matter to me, if it were yer birthday or any otha’ day.” Porthos starts to sing a song non-existing, his gruff voice starting to deepen as he raises his glass to take another drink. Soon enough, the room starts to fill with Porthos’ humming. He had a nice voice, Aramis thought.

Porthos’ humming cuts off when he speaks again, “Plus yous spend it with all those women who make ya feel all important all the time. You don’t need little ol’ me.” Porthos slurs, frowning when his wine has gone, flipping the small glass over. A drop of wine falls to the table with a plop, making Porthos sigh as he reaches out for the bottle again. Yet he just taps his hand around, his brain not registering that it’s gone.

“I’ll always need you.” Aramis vows, going down on his knees besides Porthos. This rush of devotion has Porthos sitting up straight in his chair, shaking his head as he watches the Spaniard grab both of his hands in his. “I love you Porthos.”

Porthos cocks his head, watching Aramis’ pretty lips in the fire’s glow.

“Why don’t we make today your birthday? Or tomorrow since it must be close to midnight…” Aramis trails off. “You should have a day where it’s all about you Porthos, you deserve that.”

Porthos starts to laugh again, his shoulders shaking with the jolts of his laughter. “Well, there’s still enough time to make me feel good.”

 _Maybe like all those pretty ladies you take to bed…_ Porthos thinks.

Aramis smirks, before bending down, running his hands down the sides of Porthos’ pants. This makes Porthos’ breath hitch as he thinks Aramis may actually orchestrate what his mind yearns for him to do at this very moment. This causes his drunken splendor to fade away as Aramis goes down lower and lower.

What he doesn’t expect, is for him to go down to his boots, kissing both of them for a minute at a time.

When Aramis looks back up at his friend, Porthos blinks in surprise and mild disappointment. “I fear you may not remember what else may happen tonight. I’ll make preparations and fetch you tomorrow, for your first birthday, I shall make you the happiest man in Paris.” Aramis reassures, grabbing his hat from the table and puts his hand on Porthos’ shoulder when he goes to take his leave. “Get some rest, you’ll be needing it. Goodnight.”

Porthos, who’s still shell-shocked, doesn’t wish Aramis farewell, even as the door closes he stays in the same position Aramis leaves him in. Porthos is glaring down at his shoes, pissed that they got the opportunity to kiss Aramis before he did.


	4. A Grief Anniversary

Chapter 4: Anniversary

It was late. So late that there was no good reason for Aramis to be surfacing from his bed at this hour. His body refused to sleep much further into the night, his heart beckoning him to be outside, to watch the sky, to gaze upon Paris and her city lights.

He stroked his sculpted, fully grown beard as he twirled his fingers around his thumbs; waiting for something and waiting for nothing all at once. He wonders about things that are insignificant, ponders on about current state of events, all whilst connecting nearby constellations recalled by memory.

This is, until he hears a door open and close towards the end of the balcony. There, Aramis sees Porthos, dressed in full uniform but only carrying his sword in its scabbard as he walked without a haste towards the open gate of the garrison.

Aramis knows he should grant Porthos his privacy, but he finds himself overwhelmed with curiosity towards his friend’s whereabouts. Besides, what if trouble found him at this hour?

So Aramis decided to follow, stalking far away but close enough that he can still have Porthos in his view.

He didn’t follow him far, just witnessing Porthos greeting a few night time drinkers, handing a man who was looking through trash a coin, and assisting an old prostitute to her door. They walked through the empty streets before they came upon the church, where they were going to hold mass in a few days’ time. To Aramis’ surprise, Porthos goes through the church’s double doors.

Porthos was an atheist, Aramis was sure of it.

Perhaps he went into the wrong building? Maybe the priest asked Porthos for something personal? Could he be meeting someone?

What if he was part of some grand scheme? Treville could have put Porthos undercover…That was a possibility.

Or did Porthos become a catholic without telling him? Oh…now that made Aramis a little angry.

If Porthos was saved, why wouldn’t he tell Aramis? He should be the first person Porthos would break the good news to and that was a fact. He’d be rather offended if that were the case.

So Aramis waits outside, for a few minutes, trying not to getting flared up. He’s tapping his foot, then starts to pace around as he hopes for Porthos to march out.

No, that would be ridiculous.

Yet he can’t stand there speculating when he could face the truth!

As Aramis turns to start walking up the church steps, his hand halts on the door.

But what if Porthos wanted to keep this secret? Aramis would be violating his right to personal space. Aramis didn’t have to know everything. But he just had to _know_!

As Aramis begins to open the door, a thought reoccurs to him again. _Porthos could be_ _working incognito_ … _Huh. Well. I’ll just have to find out for myself then._

Aramis is able to slip in, unnoticed, pausing when he sees the altar lit and Porthos sitting in the middle of the center pews. He doesn’t seem to be praying, neither is he with someone. Yet, curious still, Aramis finds a spot a few pews away, watching his friend from behind.

Aramis thinks he’s safe but suddenly, in the cold and peaceful silence, Porthos speaks, “What are you are doin’ here, Aramis?” Not looking back, Aramis feels this is a bad sign. He had invaded Porthos’ private time? He was going to hear how he should have stayed at the garrison and let him alone with his thoughts. He’s heard it all before.

“I was worried.” Aramis answers truthfully.

Porthos doesn’t respond for a long while, so long that Aramis stopped anticipating for a respond. He perks up when he hears Porthos again, “I’m glad you’re ‘ere, I don’t know what I was thinkin’ comin’ to this place alone.” He grunted.

If Aramis didn’t know better, Aramis could have sworn Porthos was crying.

Aramis decides to wade through the other row of pews to Porthos, sitting beside him. Close but not touching. “Are you alright?” He asks, feeling a lot better now that he decided to intrude.

Porthos’ head is down, perhaps watching his hands in lap. Porthos takes a deep breath before looking up, his cheeks shining with saltwater tears. The glow of the altar gives Porthos a deeper look of melancholy. “Today marks the night my mother died. She believed in all this religious non-sense and I remember trying to do so myself. But I couldn’t help thinking that God failed her. He failed us.” Porthos’ lips starts to jut. “I can’t believe I despise something this much…and I’ve never even seen its face. I don’t even know if he exists.”

Aramis chooses to ignore the pang in his heart by the way Porthos carelessly throws around his words towards a subject that means more to him than Porthos may understand. He continues to listen, “She didn’t even get a proper burial. She was in so much pain, clutching her breast in the streets and no matter how much I screamed, no matter how much I ran…no one came to help her. No doctor, nor priest, no God. She could have been helped. But when I came back, empty-handed of course, she was already gone. I can’t stop myself from thinking that she died alone. I wasn’t there for her. **I** failed her, like so many others disregarded her.”

“Well it wasn’t your fault. You did what you could.” Aramis patted Porthos' back, at a loss for words.

“I could have stayed. She was probably so frightened all alone in the dark.”

Aramis nodded, “Perhaps. But if you stayed, you would have felt worse thinking there was more that you could have done. You were so young, and I’m sure your mother knew that. Don’t destroy your sanity over things that you cannot control. Death is cruel and unpredictable.”

Again, silence fell over them. Both men watched the flickering of the lights, letting the calm of the fire flow within them. It was mesmerizing, to see the spirit of life dancing among all the candles, the smoke from the wax floating until they disappeared into the ceiling.

“What if she’s not at peace?” Porthos muttered finally, his tears having stopped and his voice is tinged with a sullen tone rather than engulfed with grief.

“I don’t have the gift to see beyond, but we can utter a prayer. If you’re willing?” Aramis asks. “To wish your mother a peaceful journey and a final farewell.”

“I don’t want to forget about her.”

“You won’t, she’ll always be in your heart. But if you wish her peace, you may be able to get a piece of mind.”

Porthos glances towards Aramis, and he sniffles “So…Do I go on my knees or…”

“No, you can just bow your head.”

“Oh, okay.” Porthos compliantly bows his head down along with Aramis.

“Holy father that art-“

“Wait, do I close my eyes?”

“Yes, that’s kind of the point Porthos. To be in touch with God.”

“But I thought we were praying to my mother.” Aramis refuses to smile at this lovable idiot.

“Of course we are, but we’re just asking God to grant her what we on Earth, cannot.”

“Oh I see now.” Porthos clears his throat, shuffling himself in his seat to get comfortable.

“Okay, I’m going to restart from the beginning. Holy father that art in Heaven, may you-“

“-Do I have to…you know, fold my hands?”

“It’s your prerogative.”

“Yeah, but you’re doing it.”

Aramis sighs, “Personally, that’s just how I pray.”

“Well you were the priest in trainin’...it’s just been a while and all for me.”

“I know, I’m not ridiculing.”

Porthos smirked, “Sounded like you were getting a little angry there.”

“Nonsense. Now may we continue?” Porthos stays silent for a brief moment.

“Her name was Marie. Marie-Cessette. If you wanted to know.” He says in all seriousness.

“I hadn’t even thought to catch her name, I apologize Porthos.” Aramis looks up, resting his hand on the inside of Porthos' thigh. When Porthos places his hand on top of his, Aramis has an idea. A very minor one.

Aramis turns his palm underneath Porthos’ hand, entwining their fingers. Aramis bows his head when he takes Porthos' other hand, both men facing each other with their hands connected. The moment feels a little more complete this way, in Aramis’ perspective.

When Aramis closes his eyes, he begins again for the final time. “Holy father that art in Heaven, heed our plea when we ask that the peace that layeth upon the tallest mountain and the peace that resides in the smallest stone be amongst the spirit of Marie-Cessette. When simple men refused to acknowledge her pain and her worth, we inquire that she may feel a much fonder hand in your humble presence. May the stillness of the stars watch over her son Porthos, grant him pleasant solitude when he’s conflicted, guide him when he’s weary, and protect him from the hands that wish to harm him. And may the everlasting music of your love lull both parent and offspring, to rest and eternal salvation. Amen.”

"...Say Amen Porthos"

"Oh, excuse me. Amen." Porthos clears his throat, getting caught off guard. Finally, Porthos inches his head up, a bit touched. "Thank you Aramis, that was...beautiful poetry." Porthos compliments, untwining their hands to squeeze Aramis' shoulder in gratitude. "I didn't remember prayer to be so simple."

"What they do during mass is not the same as individual prayer Porthos. Prayer creates an intimacy between the Lord and thyself. Think of it more as, a secret let out to the wind without knowing how far that secret may travel."

"Do you think it'll work?" Porthos croaks. Aramis was disappointed by the fact that he couldn't give more stability to Porthos. But he couldn't lie to him.

"If you believe it will, then I don't see why not." Aramis answered.

After a while longer sitting in the cathedral, Aramis couldn't help the sleep that was beginning to sneak its way to his head. He yawns, stretching his back along the pew, trying not to think about sunrise. "You should rest." Porthos announces, not yet feeling the effects of sleep. Though he doesn't understand why, but for some odd reason, sitting in this considerably "holy" place, it's rather tempting to think blasphemous thoughts. Already, Porthos has undressed Aramis with his mind around four times these past few hours, he's cursed out the short, inquisitive priest he greeted coming into the cathedral, and had the stray, funny thought of taking a leak in the pool of holy water.

This place also gives Porthos the creeps. He wouldn't mind if someone would forfeit their chances into heaven to burn this church to the ground, just putting it out there.

"I don't want to leave you alone in this place." Aramis says.

"Well I mean, I don't think a thief will bother trying to rob a man blind in the presence of the 'almighty one'." Porthos' voice does down an octave at the end of his sentence when referring to God.

"No, it's just...you won't go Catholic without lending a word to me, right?" Aramis asks out of curiosity, folding his hands behind his head.

"The hell would I do a damned thing like that for-whoops!" Porthos covers his mouth when he hears his echo in the barren halls. Both Musketeers decide to make a run for it into the early morning when they hear the flurry of footsteps.

As they walk through town, Aramis is smiling at Porthos, smiling so bright it was almost kissable. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

"I'm just happy you're here, is all." Aramis shrugs, chuckling when they continue walking into the square. "Don't ever change Porthos." Aramis murmurs, stopping to grab the side of Porthos' head and landing a kiss in his curls. Of course Aramis would only do this in the privacy of the streets at this time of day. Of course he had to make Porthos want to push him into an alley. Of course he made Porthos want to just fuck him senseless. That was just Aramis for you. The little shit tease.

"Ah shut up, you wretch."

 


	5. Savior

Porthos, if he silences himself enough, can still feel the tingle of that phantom bullet in his chest. Sometimes it served as a reminder, where Aramis and he stood. He’ll always have his back, no matter the situation. It was their job, as brothers, to see each other alive going into any battle; never just having the eye on your own enemy, but also on your comrade's, even if it’ll cost you your life. That was law amongst the musketeers, and Porthos had no quarrel with that.

Never did Treville separate them, even teaming Athos, a rookie, along more frequently on missions. But the fact was, Treville didn’t see the need to keep Aramis and he on different operations, they were always by each other’s side. Till the call time for Savoy was underway, Porthos felt uneasy. Watching Aramis’ confident, fading march as the others saw their way out of Paris, Porthos knew something would go terribly wrong, he felt it in his core.

He told Treville to let him go, he begged him, but he wouldn’t listen to him.

When news came that their cavalry had been ambushed in the night, Porthos didn’t morally have the time to say he told him so. All that rushed to his mind was panic that Aramis was  ** _dead_**. _“There was no probability for survivors.”_

Then grief settled in. Then he tried to accept it. Then he found out he couldn’t.

Not when they brought the bodies back and Aramis’ wasn’t among them. Not in the slightest.

Treville could tried to have stopped him, but hell, the devil couldn’t even stop him now.

Without even uttering a word to Athos, Porthos rode out that same night, as silent as the wind but as frantic as a storm. All the while chanting to himself that Aramis was still breathing, he was still alive out there. His scar, long healed though yet still very tender to the touch, burns with a charred passion.

The pain was like a bow, aiming an arrow close to his heart.

He didn’t rest, despite night turning to day and day turning to night. It was on the third day of riding that Porthos comes upon the site that their men were attacked. All cleared like nothing ever happened, as though the massacre hadn’t taken place at all.

Despite his defeat, he keeps riding, screaming Aramis’ name till his throat became sand, feeling the assault of tiredness on every pore of his being. He wants to rest and he knows his horse only has ways to go before he collapses.

Perhaps there was no use. Maybe he was too late.

Porthos stops by a nearby stream, letting his horse and himself stop for a cool drink. When he lets himself sit back, it was then when he sees a man, sitting against a tree, hands to his forehead in prayer, peaceful. Like he was stone.

Porthos crosses the stream to get to him, till he notices the blood on his torn shirt. “Aramis?” He croaks, his throat still aches.

The man slowly looks up to him, in hopelessness, but then his brown eyes suddenly shifts to surprise. Aramis. Porthos had found him. When everyone decided to stop looking, Porthos’ stubbornness prevailed. Aramis will live to see another day.

“Are you a vision? Have you come to haunt me to my death?” Aramis spits, his eyes glassy.

“No, my brother. I’ve come to save you.” Porthos says.

“Porthos, you fool. You risked your life to see me die. I’m too far gone, no one can save me.” Aramis doesn't want to be saved in the first place.

“I came to see you live, but damn it if you can’t make it back to Paris. If I can’t save you, then you die by my side. Where you belong.” Porthos growls.

Aramis lets Porthos do what he will with his remains, letting him poke and prod, wrap and seal. Let’s Porthos carry him like a maiden to his horse. Let’s Porthos wrap his arms around his waist like a damsel in distress. Let’s Porthos’ breath lull him to sleep as they ride.

In Porthos’ arms, Aramis feels safe.

Next time Aramis opens his eyes, he’s in his bed, and the worn wood panels of the ceiling look familiar. Nothing brings him more comfort but to smell the perfume on his sheets, from previous occupants. Aramis turns his head to see Porthos sitting beside him, carving a piece of wood in his hands with a knife.

“Why did you come for me?” Aramis frowns, guilty that he’s alive while so many other better men are dead.

“I had to return the favor.” Porthos mutters, the pain in his chest rising up is only slightly dissipating, with the sound of Aramis’ voice. “You saved my life, it was only right that I saved yours.”

“My wounds may heal but this hollow of guilt will not perish. You’ve carried back a broken man. My grace has vanished. God had decided my fate and you intervened!”

“Damn your God, he will not take you from me like everyone else he’s ripped carelessly from my grasp. We’ll get through this. Like we always do.” Porthos mutters, meaning every word.

Aramis notices Athos at the foot of bed, his silence unnerving, but his support was endless.

“The three of us, together.” Porthos nods, which Athos acknowledges with the nod of his own head.

A week later, Aramis is back on his feet, but not in his uniform. He cannot bare being in the garrison, wanting instead to be in the confides of his room. He doesn’t want to face his failures head on. Not yet.

The service was today, they were going to bury the dead. Porthos thought that if he could drag Aramis to see it, he’ll be able to bury his demons too. Knowing that his brothers were at peace.

After the funeral, Porthos walked with Aramis back to his rooms. All the while thinking that maybe he had brought back the body, but left behind the man. Aramis is devoid of anything pertaining to his previous self. He looked doomed, as the bags beneath his eyes grew deeper, his shoulders huddled close together, his walk sluggish, his appearance looking more untame than his usual groomed physique.

Porthos tries to remember Athos’ words, clutching onto them like a vice. “ _He needs time. Time to realize none of it was his fault.”_

“I’m sorry, about everything.” Porthos utters when they’re at Aramis’ door. Not wanting it to be another episode of Aramis slamming the door in Porthos’ face without a word. He needed Aramis to respond to him. To live again.

What he doesn’t expect is for Aramis to lean up on his toes to kiss Porthos on the cheek, smoothing out the front of his coat. One of his old habits.

“Goodnight Porthos.” Aramis looks up, sniffing to hold back his anguish. “And thank you.”

As Aramis slams the door behind him, Porthos is still reeling in the fact that Aramis finally spoke to him in what seems like forever. And that this was the first time, after all these years, Aramis ever thanked him.

“Anytime.” Porthos smiles to the wood, the pain in his chest now absent as he turns to walk to walk off into the night.

They were going to be alright.


	6. Someday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All his years on earth may have lead to this very moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me, hope you enjoy.

Porthos never feels more alive than when he’s on campaign.

The splatter of scorching blood from France’s adversaries, the armor that wholly felt like a mendable second skin, the camaraderie, the screams, and especially, the victory; it’s like his whole life has been lead to this very moment. Of old-fashion massacre and exhilaration running through his thick veins hailing from his trained dance with death.

Some days, Porthos didn’t unclasp his armor. Some days, Porthos couldn’t sleep. Some days, Porthos’ dreams weren’t of exultant contentment, but of realistic dismay. Some days, Porthos couldn’t withstand the night because the feeble flame never provided enough light. Some days, Porthos mused of Paris. Some days, Porthos yearned for a different life and then forgot about such abstracts. Some days, he conceives he’s understood his purpose, he knows the fates sent him down here to fight.

Maybe to love.

He hears of all the stories, all the desires of potential dead brothers wanting their wives, whores, mistresses. He hears of the sex, the lust, and the adventures beneath the sheets. He’s seen the letters that they tuck beneath their coats for someone to mail for them, or if they’re lucky, deliver it themselves.

He sees the life in other men’s eyes, the feeling of knowing that someone is at home awaiting your return.

Perhaps Porthos feels a tad bit cheated. Maybe.

After all those bittersweet years in the Garrison, Porthos can’t say he was disappointed. He could have courted a nice lady, settled down, had a family, like his mother would have wanted. But it didn’t sit right with his heart to drop everything and go off with “familia” expectations when his spirit still rested inside the Garrison; he couldn’t put the burden on another, especially so young, if death decided to take him too soon.

Porthos decided, if he ever were to have a family, to love and to cherish, he would do so alive; rather than with a formal piece of paper expressing regurgitated gratitude sent with insurance beneficiaries, while all his children would grow up to see a militant portrait of a man forgotten by history. But he still had some more living to do.

Besides, what would Aramis do without him?

Currently, Porthos and Aramis were in the caves, with a troop of men, awaiting the call from Athos to attack with anticipation. They all sat, whispered to each other in mild conversation, some sharped their weapons, some prayed. But Aramis and he sat nearest to the entrance of the cave, watching the sun slowly rising.

As the sun’s morning rays were peaking in, Aramis’ physique highlighted, it glowed in a subtle, virile aura; making Porthos awe in the beauty of Aramis’ magnificence. But like always, he minded himself, turning his thoughts away to more concrete matters at hand.

But that feeling always nabbed at him, he always wondered. What if…

What if they can be like that? What if they can have what other men take for granted?

Porthos could love him. Porthos could love him more than any woman ever could. But what if Aramis’ religion didn’t approve? Most likely so. But would it sojourn them anyway?

These were all questions Porthos craved to be answered, but it was ultimately impossible.

Pathetic of Porthos to have been hopeful all these years, his boy-like attraction turning into deep love and affection when Aramis perhaps doesn’t even have a smidgeon of a clue; surely, Porthos has grown from seeing Aramis as a myth, an enemy, a friend, a brother, to a man he can be content with spending the rest of his godforsaken life fighting beside. It didn’t matter if they could never be together, just as long as Aramis was always by his side.

Porthos, realistically, was not a greedy man. Despite the yearning for all what that might have been…

Soon enough, the string was pulled, indicating that it was time for their ambush. All men dropped their playthings and unsheathed their swords, waiting for the rush of horse hooves and soldiers on their backs.

The anticipation clouded Porthos’ brain, making his heart jolt in eagerness, until Aramis put his hand on top of armor and pulled Porthos forward against the wall, against him, as their men ran forward, shouting for victory.

Being so close to Aramis has Porthos out of breath, but he cannot speak, only stare into those brown seductive eyes. Quickly, Aramis seizes the opportunity to pull Porthos down to his level, the harshness of their kiss bruising their sensitive skin.

They were sweating, because the heat from the sun surrounded the cave like an oven, and most likely the bitter taste on their tongues between them was dirt and dry, crusted blood, as Aramis sucked on Porthos’ bottom lip, relishing in the moment. Porthos moaned, as Aramis tried effortlessly to pull him closer, almost till he practically hung off Porthos as he in-turn, wrapped his now strong, brown arms around his slighter frame.

In this kiss, Porthos pours all his being, as he doesn’t know if this first kiss will be his last.

When Aramis pulls back for breath, Porthos knows to himself, he would have stayed kissing Aramis till he chocked and asphyxiated himself into blissful death.

When Aramis looks back into Porthos’ eyes, he strokes a slender hand over his cheek, running a thumb over swelling lips. “Don’t die today.” He pants.

Porthos is so dumbfounded that he only nods his head in comply.

“Because you don’t know what tomorrow may bring.”

Porthos takes this one as a promise, with a wicked smile.

_Ride my insatiable Mars, into the night, into the sun. Bring the heads of thine enemies and their hordes of wine. Your victory brings forth new beginnings, as the marble you burn could not topple the ashes our love will sow. As you head to battle on Mt. Olympus, know the warmth between mine hearth shall beckon you home. With your shield, or your head upon it. Your Venus shall await your return, with a beating heart of unburnished gold and a stainless horse of steel._


End file.
